


a grain in the morning air

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Walking Dead Fusion, Angst, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8662201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: When Sam finally manages to get his eyes open, he finds himself staring up at the aged wooden slats of the barn ceiling, the billion dust motes shimmering in the still air. And Dean, hovering pale and drawn and worried above him, eyes rimmed with red.He breaks into a smile when Sam opens his eyes, exhales in tangible relief. “There you are.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my tumblr as a response to the prompt: _a walking dead au with Sam and Dean? The two of them hiding out in an abandoned house or barn, and maybe with some "let's forget about the world ending for a second" kisses?_

Dean is humming, soft and quiet. The tune is familiar, something mom used to sing when they were young— _the headlights were bright, but soon the sun came through the trees._ His fingers are in Sam’s hair, soothing through the tangled strands and scratching at his scalp, easing him gently back to wakefulness.

Sam struggles to open his eyes. They feel heavy, tacky and itchy like they’re glued shut. The air is close and stifling. Sam can feel sweat sticky on his neck, in the hollow of his throat. He tries to wet his lips to speak but his tongue is swollen and dry in his mouth and the most he can manage is a weak, stuttering cough.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice comes low and pleased, and then those fingers are wiping away the grit in Sam’s eyes, supporting his neck and bringing a glass of water to his lips. “Take it slow, Sammy.”

It’s then that Sam realizes he’s _parched_. He gulps the tepid water greedily, but Dean takes the glass away after what feels like only a few sips. Despite Sam’s efforts to chase it, his head drops back against the thin pillow without Dean’s support, neck lolling uselessly.

When Sam finally manages to get his eyes open, he finds himself staring up at the aged wooden slats of the barn ceiling, the billion dust motes shimmering in the still air. And Dean, hovering pale and drawn and worried above him, eyes rimmed with red.

He breaks into a smile when Sam opens his eyes, exhales in tangible relief. “There you are.”

 _Hi,_ Sam mouths, still unable to find his voice for the moment. He rolls his head on the pillow in what he hopes is a searching gesture. _What?_

“Fever’s down,” Dean says, by way of explanation. “Last night you were burning up. Hallucinating. Kept askin’ for mom.”

He breaks off and blinks several times. Sam mouths _Sorry_ , but Dean shakes his head, brushes him off. Clears his throat and resumes stroking Sam’s hair absently. “I changed the bandage a couple hours ago and it doesn’t look any different. Should heal up fine if we keep disinfecting it, keep you on the good stuff.”

Sam can hear Dean’s tone of forced conviction but doesn’t call him on it. Just nods his head tiredly. He vaguely remembers some of last night, burning and vomiting and shivering so hard he thought he’d rattle out of his skin. Dean’s voice low and frantic, _Shh, Sammy. Keep quiet, now. Gotta lay low_. Mostly he’s been drifting in and out since they climbed up into the barn loft days ago, fresh off running from a pack of at least twenty walkers, Sam’s leg still bleeding sluggishly from a length of broken wire on the chain-link fence they’d hopped.

All the antibiotics expired years ago, of course, so it’s just their luck that the wound got infected. Sam wonders how many days it’s been, how much of their precious stock of meds Dean has plied him with in an effort to keep him blissfully unconscious and out of pain.

“Don’t waste it all on me,” Sam mumbles, finding his voice at last, slurred by fever and drugs.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Dean’s eyes harden with hurt and anger, and he draws away from Sam as though burned. “Shut the fuck up, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes sting and his vision blurs. The fever, probably, turning him into a girl. Rather than let Dean see him cry, he turns his head to look out the low window. It’s open, and there’s a gentle breeze floating in, smelling of sweet summer flowers and fresh green and the unmistakeable rot of the dead. Sweltering as it may be, the moving air feels good on the dried sweat at his scalp and neck. Outside, the parched field of grass is bathed in sunlight, shadowed only by the creeping wall of forest at its limit. Above the highest reach of the trees, an edge of cloudless sky is visible, bright and clear. The air is alive, pulsing with heat and the rhythmic thrum of a hundred million insects.

Sam sighs deeply. “S’too fucking hot,” he says, and it comes out more pathetic than he means it.

There’s a brief shuffling, and then Dean is beside him again, wiping his forehead and neck with a damp cloth. It’s blissfully cool. Sam closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation.

“Sorry,” Dean murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.

Sam hums, shakes his head. It had been Dean’s idea to come this far south, so they could survive the winter. Now it’s summer, and the heat of the Louisiana countryside is a tangible force working to slow them down at every opportunity. Better than another year spent freezing half-to-death in Montana, Sam supposes.

He shivers a little. The cloth runs lower, over his chest and stomach under his thin shirt. He flinches away from it, suddenly chilled. Thinking about winter must have gotten to him.

Dean stops, studying Sam carefully. He sets the cloth aside and reaches to feel Sam’s forehead with the back of his hand. For a few moments he’s quiet, concentrating. Then he exhales heavily, scrubs a hand over his face, mutters _Shit_ into the meat of his palm.

“What?” Sam tries to ask through clattering teeth.

Dean moves away again, then returns with another wet cloth, which he folds and puts under Sam’s head, right against the back of his neck.

“H-hey!” Sam jerks away weakly. It’s _freezing_ , sending little shocks and shivers through his whole body, raising goosebumps on his flesh. Dean has resumed wiping Sam’s stomach, and the sensation of the rough cloth is making his skin prickle uncomfortably. “Quit it, Dean.”

“Fever’s up again,” Dean says. “Gotta get it back down. Hold still, kiddo.”

He only calls Sam that when he’s really scared. Sam doesn’t want Dean to be afraid. He reaches out, but his arms are so heavy and moving makes the dull throbbing pain in his leg spike hot and sharp. He bites his lip against the pathetic whimper that escapes.

“Hey.” Dean pins his arms easily, holding him in place. “C’mon, Sammy. Work with me here. Just. Don’t move. Please.”

Sam nods, wills himself to be still and yielding. Some of the pain drains away immediately and he’s left feeling exhausted and empty.

“Good.” Dean’s thumb strokes the soft skin at the inside of Sam’s forearm. “That’s good. I got you. You can go on back to sleep if you need.”

Sam doesn’t like the way Dean’s voice is breaking strangely with every few words. He says, “Please.”

Dean’s eyes flick over his face intently. “What do you need?”

Sam reaches for Dean’s hand, squeezes it with as much strength as he can muster. “C’mere,” he whispers.

He expects resistance, doesn’t anticipate the way Dean folds into him like a house of cards. Bends low to press his forehead to Sam’s shoulder and take several long, trembling breaths there, in the divot of Sam’s collarbone. Sam says it again, _C’mere_ , and then Dean’s nose is bumping against his and his breath is touching Sam’s lips. Up close, the green and grey of his eyes is flecked with gold that glitters and sparkles like all the little specks of dust in the air. The bridge of his nose is painted with a hundred freckles— _sun kisses_ , mom used to call them. From this angle, Dean looks younger than Sam has ever seen him, and so tired.

“It’s okay,” Sam breathes, though the way he’s shivering says otherwise. “I’m okay, Dean.”

Dean drinks the words from his mouth like he’s taking Holy Communion, presses his lips to Sam’s with all the quivering awe of receiving God’s grace. He tastes of tobacco and sweat and Sam is _burning_ again, scorched by the heat of Dean’s mouth and hands. Dean’s fingers twine tight in his hair as he kisses Sam once, then again, dry and chaste.

“Better be,” Dean whispers. Soft like a prayer, desperate and half-remembered, or a song from an old record, drifting dreamlike and faded through an open window at sundown.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr [@withthedemonblood](http://withthedemonblood.tumblr.com/).


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